


I've Been Loving You for Quite Some Time

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Courtship, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cultural Differences, M/M, Miscommunication, No Heats, No bonding, Pining, lite, there were spreadsheets involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Enjolras is an omega; Grantaire is an alpha. Can I make it any more obvious? (Actually, yes.)(Or, in which Grantaire has recently returned to France after years away, and there is some cultural miscommunication regarding courtship procedures.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to kenopsia for being excited when I sent her several hundred words of not-fic back in February, helping me work through the timeline, and being a fantastic cheerleader throughout this process. Thanks also to Castillon02 for looking over this even though it's totally outside of her fandoms and tropes. 
> 
> Thanks to beginningwitha for helping me come up with the gift idea in Chapter Four and, as ever, for sending supportive messages and emojis and Taylor Swift references even though she had no idea what I was writing. Title from Taylor Swift via A, you know the drill. 
> 
> Note about this particular brand of A/B/O: a “bonded pair” here only means a serious dating relationship. There’s no ceremony, no biting, et cetera; they’re significant others of the likely-will-get-married-eventually-if-marriage-is-a-thing-that-is-important-to-them variety. What it says on the tin—this is A/B/O-lite. 
> 
> French cultural note: CE2 is the equivalent of third grade; 3e = 3ième = ninth grade. (Brits, sorry, you're on your own for the cultural translation.) (To be clear, though, nobody here is in third or ninth grade.)

Enjolras is reviewing his notes (again) in preparation for the meeting when Combeferre arrives—early, of course, but a later early than his usual. 

“We’ve got somebody new coming tonight,” Combeferre says, dropping into the seat next to Enjolras. Enjolras automatically shifts his laptop so Combeferre can read the screen. Cosette is sitting across from them, marking her students’ latest spelling quiz, but she greets Combeferre with a smile before refocusing on her work. 

“Somebody you know?” Enjolras asks. 

“No, Jehan invited him. He’s some kind of artist, Jehan wasn’t very clear on that point, but they met when he was squatting in the art section.” 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. Jehan works at a bookstore and can’t go more than a week without picking up a stray. Most of the time, this stray is an underappreciated (in their eyes) Romantic poet, or a ladybug, or art they’ve made out of discarded receipts. Occasionally, it’s a human, and occasionally, that human sticks around. Enjolras wonders if it’s too much to ask that the latest adoptee be more like Feuilly than Marius (although, to be fair, the latter was a joint find between Jehan and Courfeyrac). 

Combeferre waves a hand. “That’s what I was able to figure out, anyway. Jehan’s in a very Jehan mood today. You’re better off asking him directly when he gets here.” 

“If he sticks around after the meeting, sure,” says Enjolras. 

“He probably will,” says Combeferre. “He only moved back a couple of months ago, apparently. He’s been living in Greece and Albania and—Jehan got distracted around this point, but somewhere else in that region—since he was a kid.” 

Enjolras straightens up. “We’ve been saying for a while we want a more international perspective in the group.” 

Combeferre nods, thoughtful. “But let’s not depend upon one person to bring us that. Also, we should be prepared for cultural differences to arise.” 

“If he tries to bring in any alpha bull—” Enjolras starts. 

“ _Jehan_ recruited him, so I really doubt that,” Cosette says, setting a pen stroke-covered paper to the side. “They’re O and O-bonded, and obviously proud about both of those things. They wouldn’t have asked this guy if they thought he was an asshole—nor would he have said yes, probably.” She caps her pen shut. “Anyway, since when are secondary gender relations the main marker of cultural differences? It’s not like France is the pinnacle of equality, on any score.” 

Enjolras winces. “You’re right.” 

“Right about what?” Courfeyrac swoops in from out of nowhere and rests his chin on the top of Combeferre’s head. 

“We don’t actually know this person is an alpha, do we?” Cosette turns to Combeferre, who shakes his head. 

“I shouldn’t have assumed that,” Enjolras agrees. 

_Or assumed that he’s a bigot, or that any cultural differences would be rooted in an alpha superiority complex_ , he adds to himself. 

Enjolras _knows_ that in different regions—hell, at different times in his own region—different secondary genders have been revered or villainized or belittled. But as an omega living in a country still shaking off the last vestiges of the latest round of O inferiority… 

Combeferre adjusts his glasses. “If he _is_ an alpha, I’ll make sure to talk to him at the end of the meeting, let him know that if he has any questions about alpha roles here, he can talk to me or Musichetta. Okay?” 

“We are a little lopsided,” Enjolras says. Most of the group is either beta or omega. 

“It’s because we’re incestuous, and who wants an alpha when you can have an omega?” Courfeyrac says, his tone bright. 

“Thanks,” says Combeferre dryly. 

“Anytime,” says Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac settles into his own chair, and Enjolras pushes thoughts of Jehan’s latest stray out his mind as they finish preparing for the meeting. 

  


Here is what Enjolras learns about Jehan’s stray by way of observation and overheard introductions with other people and—fine—a small bit of staring throughout the meeting. 

Jehan’s stray is named Grantaire. He’s a freelance digital artist but teaches painting to kids at a local community center on Wednesday afternoons (“hence the paint all over this sweatshirt, shit, sorry, I forget other people expect paint stain-free wardrobes”). He used to box, but he hasn’t found a gym he likes here yet (Bahorel offers to take him to his). He speaks Greek, French, and a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese (“just enough to order a beer and ask someone to dance”). 

He has dark, curly hair and light brown skin. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle almost all the way shut. He can’t sit still at all; five minutes into the meeting, he starts folding origami with the flimsy paper napkins someone’s left at the center of the table. Ten minutes later, Combeferre takes pity on him and slips him old pamphlets so he can use a sturdier material for his creations, one of which ends up being one of those annoying fortune-telling finger games people were obsessed with in grade school. 

Enjolras thinks he’s gorgeous. 

He loses the thread of what he’s saying _three times_ because he’s too distracted by Grantaire’s hands, his hair, his grin whenever Jehan whispers in his ear. 

Enjolras would be jealous if Jehan were attracted to alphas, but they’re not, and they’re desperately in love with Courf either way. 

If he’d passed Grantaire on the street—where the city smells mask secondary gender pheromones unless you’re pressed into the other person on the métro—he might not have pegged him for an alpha. He walks—stands, even—lightly, far lighter on his feet than stereotypical alphas or even most betas. 

It’s not like Enjolras is living in a romance novel. Grantaire’s pheromones didn’t _overpower_ him or _clog his senses_ or anything like that when he entered the room. Enjolras couldn’t even tell he was an alpha until Enjolras had passed behind his chair while distributing handouts. Eventually, if Grantaire keeps coming to meetings, Enjolras’s subconscious awareness of him as an alpha will diminish as he becomes accustomed to Grantaire’s scent, just as Combeferre’s scent, or Courfeyrac’s or Feuilly’s for that matter, is now recognized and discarded as known, comfortable, irrelevant information by his instincts. 

Really, if he were as aware of everyone’s scents all the time as the characters in Courfeyrac’s cheap paperbacks, he wouldn’t be able to get anything done. The amount of sex people in those books have is completely understandable once you realize they’re all lacking scent familiarity filters. 

But on this first night, Enjolras has a lot of sympathy for every scent-driven protagonist he once scorned, because once he catches Grantaire’s scent, it lingers in his mind, even after he should no longer physically be able to smell it. 

Enjolras thinks about talking to him after the official part of the meeting has wrapped up—asking him how he’s liking Paris, what he thinks of their group, where he learned how to make origami—but he gets caught up in a discussion with Combeferre, only looking up when he notices that Grantaire’s scent has finally vanished and Grantaire with it. 

  


It’s not like he dreams about Grantaire over the next week, or gets off thinking about his nimble hands, or anything like that. 

Enjolras just _thinks_ about him sometimes, thoughts of Grantaire slipping in beside thoughts of the presidential election while he rides the métro on the way to the office, surprising him with how natural they feel as he contemplates fruit at the corner grocery. 

  


Grantaire brings a sketchpad with him to his second meeting. His clothes aren’t paint-stained today, but the loose, long-sleeved Henley and jeans combo looks soft. Inviting. 

Enjolras watches with envy as Grantaire trades light punches with Bahorel and jokes with Courfeyrac. He _ruffles Jehan’s hair_. 

Enjolras runs his fingers through his own hair. It doesn’t have the same satisfying effect. 

“Shall we?” prompts Combeferre, and they start the meeting. 

Enjolras is tense throughout the meeting, almost vibrating with anticipation, waiting for Grantaire to speak up. To agree with him, or—better? worse?—disagree with him. To _engage_ , and then Enjolras can show off a bit in his response… 

But Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even seem to be listening, just continues to sketch, turning a page every now and again. For reasons Enjolras can’t fathom, Marius frowns every time the rustle of the sketchbook pages can be heard between their discussion. 

Enjolras watches Grantaire draw as discreetly as he can. He’s not distracted, per se, or at least nothing he can’t handle. But he keeps Grantaire—his curls and his hands and his lip bitten in concentration—within his field of vision at all time, like a landmark. Like a navigational star. 

Enjolras refuses to let Grantaire leave without talking to him, _again_. He’s not some blushing Regency omega who won’t make the first move. 

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat next to Grantaire, which Jehan had helpfully vacated moments before, with a very obvious wink. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire. He sets down his pen. 

“What are you working on?” Enjolras nods at the sketch, which involves a lot of bubble-figures and arrows. 

“Lesson plan for next week,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras peers at it; Grantaire laughs. 

“Don’t worry, I always give my substitutes directions in words, but when it’s just me, why bother? I can visualize the class better this way,” he explains. 

“That’s… different,” says Enjolras, then winces. “So what’s the lesson?” 

“How to paint different body types, basically,” Grantaire shrugs. “They tend to paint a lot of people, when we’re not specifically working on buildings or landscapes or shit, but they’re _all_ stick people. If an alien’s only conception of humanity came from my kids’ paintings, they’d think fat people were a totally different species. And that all alphas are tall and all omegas are child-sized and the rest. Even the kids whose parents don’t fit that still paint like it, which is depressing as fuck. There’s probably going to be some parent who comes in the week after and complains but, whatever, I’m not in this for the money.” 

Enjolras gapes. He may be a little turned on right now. Not _physically_ —but mentally he’s naked and lying on a bed, legs spread. 

Grantaire awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck. “I know it’s kind of a stupid lesson and, uh, self-centered—”

“No,” Enjolras interrupts. “It’s not stupid. It’s so important. It’s—I think it’s amazing, actually.” 

“Oh.” A small flush overtakes Grantaire’s cheeks. “Thanks.” 

“You’ve probably got it covered, and I’m not trying to take over your lesson plan or insinuate that I don’t think you know what you’re doing,” Enjolras says, now wishing he paid slightly more attention to his friends’ periodic remonstrances on this topic, “but if you wanted to run your ideas by someone else, especially from a more local perspective, Cosette teaches CE2 and works on those kinds of themes with her students a lot. She might have some resources you could incorporate.” 

“Thanks,” says Grantaire again. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’m basically making up this teaching thing as I go along, so it’d be helpful to get her thoughts on that. And her perspective as a woman and…” He trails off. 

“An omega,” Enjolras finishes, a tad confused. Grantaire’s met her; surely he’s caught her scent, then, even if he was unwilling to assume based on her stereotypically O features. 

“I wasn’t sure,” Grantaire admits. “The scent, like, landscape here is really different? Especially with—” he hesitates again “—bonded pairs?” 

“Marius,” Enjolras confirms. 

“Okay, I got that right, good,” Grantaire says, his smile relaxing. 

“Cosette, Joly, Jehan, Courf, and I are all O,” Enjolras says. He tries to be casual about it. He’s just being helpful. Informative. “In case you weren’t sure.” 

“Jehan and Courfeyrac I got,” Grantaire says, laughing. “But thanks. Again. I’ll message Cosette later, if you don’t think she’d mind.” 

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled,” Enjolras says honestly. 

Grantaire nods but doesn’t say anything else; an awkward silence falls between them, highlighted by the animated conversation Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan are having at the other end of the table. 

Enjolras thinks about Grantaire’s monologue on his lesson plan, compared to his silence throughout the meeting. 

He clears his throat. “You know there’s no prerequisites for speech here, right?”

“What?” 

“You don’t have to come to a certain number of meetings before you can voice an opinion,” says Enjolras. 

“I didn’t think there was,” says Grantaire. 

“But…” Enjolras frowns. 

“Voicing an opinion would require me to _have_ one,” Grantaire says. 

“But your students—”

“That’s me teaching twenty-five kids how to paint realistic people,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras opens his mouth, ready to protest—to debate—to convince—to convert—but Grantaire holds up a hand. 

“Look. If you need a body at a protest, I will be there, and I won’t tell any reporters that I think it’s a useless act. I’ll tell them to talk to you instead. But that’s all I’ve got, okay?” Grantaire closes his sketchpad. “That’s what I’ve got. If that’s enough, cool. But if you have a required threshold level for like, giving a fuck, in order to be in the group, I get it, I’ll stop coming.”

“No,” says Enjolras, too fast and too forceful. How did he manage to derail their conversation so quickly? 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. (Enjolras may have spent more time than he’d care to admit during his teenage years trying to master the art of the single eyebrow raise, to no avail. It is the most cliché sexy move ever, but damn.) 

“You’re sure?” Grantaire asks. He sounds skeptical. 

Which is fair. And sure, normally, Enjolras wouldn’t be as adamant about someone who didn’t participate—someone who didn’t believe in the group’s ability to change the world, or at least the city—staying in the group. But Grantaire clearly did care, even if he worked on a different level. His silence wasn’t actively hurting the group and maybe if he stayed… well, maybe Enjolras could change his mind. Get him to see that twenty-five kids and some paintbrushes was something, and protests could finish where painting left off. 

“I’m sure,” Enjolras sys. “I’d love—I mean, yes, the group could always use more people. Strength in numbers.” 

“Okay, then.” Grantaire leans over, slipping his sketchpad into his bag. “See you next week.” 

“Yes!” Enjolras coughs. “Yeah. Uh, next week. Good luck with the class.” 

Grantaire gives him a sloppy salute as he leaves. 

  


Grantaire is part of the group text now; Jehan and Courfeyrac insisted on adding him at the beginning of the last meeting. Enjolras is happy that they made a production out of it so he didn’t have to awkwardly suggest it himself, and annoyed that he didn’t extend said offer first. Plus, although he now technically has _access_ to Grantaire’s number, it’s not as if Grantaire gave it to him specifically, right? The texting protocols are surely different. 

Enjolras debates this for several days, then caves and texts Jehan on Wednesday after work. 

_Enjolras_ : Would it be weird and stalker-y of me to text Grantaire? 

_Jehan_ : You’re overthinking this 

_Enjolras_ : That’s not a no.

 _Jehan_ : Should I send you some poetry he might like? Courf courted me almost exclusively through poetry

 _Jehan:_ and flowers

 _Jehan:_ and fair trade coffee

Enjolras groans and curls up more tightly on the couch. If Jehan’s in the right mood and you don’t head them off at once, they can talk about Courf for _hours_. (If they aren’t in the right mood, they might be content to limit Courf-talk to one hour.) Enjolras is happy for them, he is, but sometimes there are other matters that need to be resolved, not pertaining to the precise shade of Courfeyrac’s hair. 

_Enjolras:_ Please stop. 

_Jehan_ : and leg warmers

 _Enjolras_ : You know Grantaire best… will he think it’s weird if I text him? Not on the group text? 

_Jehan_ : He won’t think it’s weird if you don’t act like it’s weird

 _Jehan_ : Although if you text him right now, please don’t panic if he doesn’t reply right away

 _Jehan_ : He’s boxing with Bahorel 

_Jehan_ : ENJY. I JUST HAD THE GREATEST WORKOUT DVD SERIES IDEA. 

_Jehan_ : Wouldn’t Bahorel be a great 80s/90s workout video instructor? 

_Enjolras_ : … Boxing with Bahorel?

 _Jehan_ : YES!!! 

_Enjolras:_ I’m going to text Grantaire. 

_Jehan_ : Proud of you xxx 

Enjolras doesn’t text Grantaire immediately. He sweeps his apartment. He doesn’t begrudge Feuilly wanting to move in with Bahorel, which left Enjolras to find a new apartment after the lease on their two-bedroom was up five months ago, but sometimes it’s a little lonely. Not a big deal. A lot of people are a little lonely in their twenties. Right? 

He heats up some soup, slices bread and cheese, eats. He even washes all of the dishes before he finally permits himself to compose the text. 

It takes him longer than it should—four minutes and three drafts, if Jehan asks; ten minutes, if he’s being honest—before he settles on an opening message. 

_Enjolras_ : Hey, it’s Enjolras! Your art class is Wednesday afternoons, right? Hope the lesson went well! 

Enjolras doesn’t stare at his phone to the exclusion of all other activities, but he does turn the volume all the way up before beginning his nightly circuit of blogs and news sites he trusts. He’s already sent two articles to Combeferre and Courfeyrac as potential curated content for the ABC’s Twitter account when Grantaire responds. 

_Grantaire_ : Hey! It went pretty well, yeah. It was a lot of fun to teach and some of the kids got really into it. Cosette was really helpful, thanks for suggesting I connect with her on this

Enjolras only hesitates a moment before replying, _I’m glad to hear it! Cosette always has great resources for kid-oriented outreach. And if you ever want to do a lesson on effective protest banners...I may know some people who’d love to help._

He’s not going to wait five or fifteen or fifty minutes just to look cool. That’s a dumb, juvenile move, and if Grantaire wants to interpret his quick reply as a signal that Enjolras considers their text conversation important, Enjolras is more than fine with that. It’s not like legislation has ever been passed by playing it cool. 

… Right? 


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras is late to the meeting on Friday. Not officially late—he walks in right on time—but considerably late for him, which means he doesn’t have a chance to talk to Grantaire before Combeferre calls the meeting to order.

“Sorry, hearing ran long,” Enjolras whispers to Combeferre as he pulls out his laptop. 

True to form, Grantaire doesn’t speak up during the meeting. Which isn’t, Enjolras realizes, to say that he’s completely silent. He whispers with Bossuet and cracks up when Bahorel shows him the satirical cartoon Courf made a passing reference to, evidently to Grantaire’s confusion—a reaction that prompts an uncharacteristic glare from Marius. But Grantaire doesn’t contribute to the discussion proper, instead focusing on doodling… grasshoppers? Enjolras can’t quite tell from across the table… on Jehan’s hands. 

Enjolras reminds himself that Grantaire gets to decide who he’s comfortable being physically close to, but it doesn’t stop a tangle of want and jealousy from lodging itself in his throat. 

At the end of the meeting, even before Enjolras can casually make his way toward Grantaire, Grantaire waves him over. 

“Hey,” says Enjolras. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire. He glances around the room at the lingering group. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

“Of course,” says Enjolras. 

He’s not quite delusional enough to think Grantaire is about to ask him out. They’ve known each other all of two weeks, exchanged all of five text messages apiece. And even if Grantaire did want to ask him out, he’d just ask, right—no need to talk about talking about it. 

He wonders what Grantaire’s first dates are usually like. Coffee is pretty standard, and could mean anything—it’s an appropriate opening move for relationships that are meant to remain casual, as well as for courting relationships. 

“It’s, um,” Grantaire says, not looking at Enjolras, but instead toward where Marius and Cosette are cuddled together by the counter behind them. “I don’t think Marius likes me very much? And I was wondering if you knew why. I mean, I know I should ask Marius, but I thought… I’d ask if you had any ideas, first? I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with anybody here.” 

“I’m sure Marius—” Enjolras begins, then stops. 

He was about to insist that Marius likes basically everyone, his grandfather excluded, but Marius’s behavior toward Grantaire has been cold. 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, his voice flat. “And I don’t really know yet if this is a direct confrontation kind of group, or a delicate back channel negotiation group, or a combination, and then on which side Marius falls…” 

“Oh god. That sounds complicated,” says Enjolras, flustered even though it’s his damn friend group. But it grew organically, with him and Combeferre and Courfeyrac at the center—he’s never tried to map it all from an outsider’s position before. “You could probably talk to him about it. But if you’d prefer, I can talk to him first, especially if it’s an ABC issue and not a friend issue.” 

Grantaire ducks his head. “Thanks. I don’t want to start any trouble, you know?” 

“Marius is normally easygoing,” says Enjolras. “I’m sure whatever this is can be cleared up quickly.” 

“Oh, it can be,” Cosette says smoothly, slipping into the seat on the other side of Grantaire. Her tone is one part annoyance, one part fondness, one part angelic superiority. 

“Yeah?” Grantaire turns to her, hopeful. 

“He’s having another one of his beta complexes,” Cosette says, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Enjolras says, remembering the tumultuous initial courting period between the two. 

“What?” says Grantaire. 

“So what you have to understand is that his grandfather was an alpha superiority dick. Marius grew up thinking that, as a beta, he could never deserve an omega, never be enough for one, all of that. _Obviously_ I don’t believe in any of that and told him that from the start, but I think having a new alpha come in made him panicked again,” Cosette explains. 

“And then I messaged you about the class…” Grantaire says. His shoulders slump. 

“It’s not your fault,” Cosette says. “ _You_ know I’m bonded, and _I_ have no intention of leaving Marius. He’s hyper-sensitive to these things, which isn’t his fault, either.” 

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, his tone miserable. “I’m, uh.” He presses the palms of his hands flat against the table. “Not exactly used to being seen as competition, or whatever. Not that omegas are prizes to be competed over!” he adds quickly. 

“We know,” Cosette says. “We wouldn’t have added you to the group text if we thought otherwise.” 

“About the omega thing,” Enjolras clarifies. 

Cosette laughs. “Yeah. You’re cute and you work with kids, get used to it.” She stands, patting Grantaire on the shoulder. “Marius will be fine from now on. See you guys later!” 

Grantaire stares down at his hands, still resting on the table. 

“Was that better or worse than what you were expecting?” Enjolras prompts after a moment. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says. “Shit. Ugh.” 

“It’s all cleared up now,” Enjolras says. “Cosette’s word is law with Marius.” 

“Okay,” says Grantaire. He straightens up. “Okay.” 

“Any other group dynamic questions I can answer, or pull in a third party to answer?” Enjolras asks. 

“I think that Cosette cleared up the main one,” says Grantaire. “Although, I’ve got to say, this group has, like, the healthiest and most diverse mate arrangements ever. Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly’s balanced triad? Awesome. Not—” Grantaire cuts himself off. “Not like I’m fetishizing or anything, just that sometimes it’s cool to see in real life, to _know_ in real life, healthy rare arrangements? Proof that there’s more than one really great way to live.” 

“I know what you mean,” says Enjolras. 

He does. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t rankle that, out of all the ways people can be together romantically, he hasn’t found _one_ , not outside of fantasy, anyway. Two-thirds of his friends are in happy relationships, which is brilliant for them and… not so brilliant for Enjolras convincing himself that other people get lonely, too. 

  


On Saturday morning, Cosette sends a message to the group text, inviting everyone over for a movie night. About half the group has responded affirmatively when Enjolras receives a private text from Grantaire. 

_Grantaire_ : I need to be awkwardly blunt right now and you need to be honest with me. About this movie night? Did Cosette mean to send this to the group text?

_Grantaire_ : Does she remember that I’m IN the group text?

_Grantaire_ : Is this an awkward olive branch that she’s forcing Marius into? Because that’s reaaaaally not necessary

_Grantaire_ : So I’m just checking that I shouldn’t show up

_No, no, no_ , Enjolras thinks. Grantaire should definitely show up. 

_Enjolras:_ She remembers you’re in the group text. You’re meant to be invited. 

_Enjolras_ : We have movie nights about once a month. We rotate between the apartments with enough space for all of us (i.e. not Eponine’s, not Feuilly/Bahorel’s). 

_Enjolras_ : You should come. 

Enjolras’s fingers hesitate over the screen. Is it too much to say that he specifically would like for Grantaire to come? 

_Enjolras_ : They’re fun, promise. 

_Grantaire_ : Well if you say so 

_Enjolras_ : Is that a yes? 

_Grantaire_ : I’ll be there

_Grantaire_ : Any allergies / special preferences / etc. I should know about? 

_Enjolras_ : We’re about half vegetarian, so we generally keep everything vegetarian for casual group things like this. 

_Grantaire_ : [thumbs-up emoji]

In the group text, Grantaire replies, _looking forward to it!_

That evening, Enjolras tries not to dither too much over his clothes before heading out. So far, Grantaire has exclusively seen him at meetings, when he’s in his work clothes, which everyone has assured him is a good look. But Enjolras doesn’t want that to be his only look. He doesn’t want Grantaire to think of him as someone who emerges from an office or a courtroom only to return to them. 

_Soft, but not sloppy_ , Enjolras decides. He settles on jeans that are comfortable without completely obscuring his ass and a sweater that’s broken in without being broken down. 

It’s only when he’s putting on his shoes that he realizes Cosette didn’t include the address in her invitation.

_Enjolras_ : Sorry for not thinking of this earlier—do you know Cosette + Marius’s address? 

_Grantaire_ : No worries, I texted Cosette, she gave me full instructions. Which métro exit to take, important landmarks, the works

Of course he would have texted Cosette, the host, instead of Enjolras for this information. _Duh_ , he thinks. 

_Enjolras_ : Perfect! See you soon. 

_Grantaire_ : [smiley face emoji]

  


Enjolras arrives before Grantaire. Courf and Jehan have already claimed the loveseat, and Joly and Musichetta drift back into the kitchen with Cosette after greeting him. Bahorel is sitting at the table, attempting to teach Marius some kind of card trick, but he keeps forgetting the steps. Enjolras drops onto the couch next to the loveseat. 

“Grantaire had a crisis in the wine aisle,” Jehan informs him. “He should be here soon.”

“A crisis?” Enjolras asks. 

“Trying to accommodate thirteen different people’s tastes,” Jehan clarifies. “But Marius and Cosette have a couple of different bottles, and Eponine is bringing whiskey, so I told him not to stress and just pick the one whose label matched his mood.” 

“This means you have to drink whatever he brings, sugarplum,” Courf says, pressing a kiss to Jehan’s neck. “Without complaint.” 

“I would never disparage the offering of a friend,” says Jehan. They glance slyly at Enjolras. “Much less a friend _another_ friend has an eye on.” 

“Am I that obvious?” he asks.

“Only to us, because we know you,” Jehan says.

“And your type,” says Courfeyrac, with a wide grin. 

“I didn’t think I had a type,” Enjolras protests, but only weakly. 

“He’s it,” Courfeyrac says. 

Enjolras lets his head flop back against the cushions. “Not a word about it when he gets here, okay? No scaring him off.” 

“Silent as the grave,” Jehan promises. Which is less reassuring than it might be, given that Enjolras is familiar with Jehan’s beliefs in hauntings, ghosts, and otherworldly spirits in general. 

Grantaire has barely taken off his shoes before Feuilly and Bahorel arrive, closely followed by Eponine, and then Combeferre. Several cheery, chaotic minutes are lost to greetings and drink pouring and food distribution. Somehow, Enjolras finds himself herded back to the couch, Grantaire beside him, with Combeferre on the other end. 

The couch is plenty big for three people. Their shoulders don’t brush; their thighs aren’t pressed against each other. Enjolras’s life is not a romantic comedy. 

Still. Grantaire is beside him, sitting (still for once) in his peripheral vision, for the entire two hours and fifteen minutes of _The Force Awakens_. Courf and Jehan are intertwined on the loveseat; Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are a puppy pile on the carpet in front, and Feuilly is slumped between the V of Bahorel’s legs, holding his partner’s hand with one hand and continuously readjusting their numerous pillows with the other. And that’s without even mentioning Marius and Cosette. 

Enjolras wants to shift his weight, tuck himself into Grantaire’s side. To have the right to be cuddled all the time, kisses dropped into his hair, along his spine. 

He didn’t spend much time thinking about the fact that he was single before Grantaire came along. He’s single; it’s a fact. He has his friends, his job, the ABC. It’s a good life, full of people. 

But now that Grantaire is here, he admits: He wants someone in this other way, too. A blurry-faced, anonymous someone, that’s easy enough to dismiss, but when someone is sitting beside you on the couch, refilling your wine glass and cheering on Finn, it’s a lot harder to ignore. 

After the movie ends, they linger in the living room, chatting. Bahorel and Feuilly are the first to leave; Enjolras is almost certain Feuilly was asleep for the last half of the film. Grantaire offers to help clean up, and Enjolras follows him into the kitchen, carrying the rest of the glasses Grantaire couldn’t hold. 

“So, how’d we do?” Enjolras asks, striving for casual as he leans against the counter. 

“What do you mean?” 

“As a friend group. Did we pass the test?” Enjolras asks. Maybe he’s being too open about this, too awkward, but damn it, he wants Grantaire as part of their group, and he knows the others do, too—even Marius, who was mollified by Grantaire’s deferential politeness throughout the night. 

Grantaire gives him an odd look. “Uh, yeah. Flying colors. Although, on that note, I’d maybe be a bit terrified of playing paintball with you guys.” 

Enjolras takes a moment to consider this. Before he can come up with a response, Grantaire continues, “Isn’t it the other way around? The audition, I mean.” 

“For… paintball?” 

“The ‘friend group.’” 

“You’ve been in since Jehan invited you to the ABC meeting,” Enjolras says. “If you want, anyway. We’re not a cult. There’s no contract. You can leave.” 

Grantaire grins and huffs a laugh. “Well, damn. And here I was, thinking that I’d finally signed away my soul and wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.” 

“It’s still all yours,” Enjolras says. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Grantaire’s tone is teasing—flirty, even. Maybe. Enjolras doesn’t know him well enough yet to distinguish between his friend-teasing and his flirty-teasing. Enjolras hasn’t flirted with enough people, period, to easily recognize the difference in general. Grantaire stretches. “I’d better head home unless I want to fall asleep on the métro.” 

“Me, too,” says Enjolras. He suppresses a yawn. 

If Grantaire wanted to stay, Enjolras would, but as he’s leaving, Enjolras may as well use the opportunity to walk to the station with him. He pointedly ignores Courfeyrac’s smirk as he follows Grantaire out of the apartment. 

  


On Sunday, Enjolras goes over to Combeferre’s for lunch, theoretically for informal preparations for next week’s meeting, but—especially given the absence of Courfeyrac—actually so they can have some company while almost everyone else they know is having sleepy Sunday afternoon sex. 

“Does it ever bother you?” Enjolras asks. 

He’s stretched out on Combeferre’s sofa, laptop balanced on his stomach. He has no idea what any of the ten open tabs are about. 

“Hm?” Combeferre is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, medical journals and newspapers spread out in front of him. 

“Being single when nobody else is,” Enjolras says. 

“There’s you, me, Eponine—” says Combeferre. He adjusts his glasses. 

“It’s too bad we’d make for a terrible triad,” Enjolras says, thoughtfully, his words directed at Combeferre’s ceiling. 

“Plus, that would still leave someone out,” Combeferre says. 

Enjolras turns his head to look at Combeferre. “Who?”

“Grantaire.” Combeferre’s tone is even, his gaze steady. 

“Stop avoiding the question,” says Enjolras. 

Combeferre rolls his eyes, but he readjusts his sitting position, frowning a little as he considers. “No, it doesn’t really bother me,” he says after a moment. “I’m not _against_ being in a relationship, but I don’t feel the need to actively seek one out, either. Most of our friends having partners—” 

“—being each other’s partners,” Enjolras interrupts; Combeferre acknowledges the correction with a nod.

“—being each other’s partners hasn’t made me feel pressured one way or the other. It’s not like we do couples-only activities. Or, rather, relationship-only activities,” he adds, in deference to their triad. 

“But they get to come together. And leave together. And sit together during,” says Enjolras. He closes the laptop and its unknown tabs and sets it on the floor. 

“You, Feuilly, and Cosette went to that speaker series last month together, didn’t you? And you, Courf and I hang out without Jehan sometimes,” Combeferre says. 

“No, I know,” says Enjolras. “It’s not—nobody’s doing anything wrong, or making it impossible to spend time with them without their partner, or any of that. It’d just be nice, wouldn’t it? To have a built-in… person?” 

Combeferre shrugs. “If that’s how you feel about it, that’s valid.” 

Enjolras groans. 

Combeferre clears his throat. “And this really has nothing at all to do with the arrival of a certain alpha?” 

“He gave his students a lesson on _diverse body types_ ,” Enjolras whimpers. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, my day job involved some wrangling with a software that doesn't recognize the Greek alphabet, which meant I spent a not-insignificant amount of time manually typing out the relevant letters as they cropped up: lambda, theta, eta, gamma, rho... and plenty of alpha, beta, omega. It was very effective for reminding me that today is a posting day.

By Friday, Enjolras’s mid-cycle horniness has arrived. For most of his teens and university years, he thought cyclical arousal fluctuation was pretty much a myth, albeit one that mysteriously appeared in even reputable health textbooks. 

Enjolras is now a believer. 

He has to honest-to-God schedule in time for him to be distracted and horny at this time of the month, although he prefers knowing when (and why) he’ll be hit with increased arousal over his previous baffled shock at the seemingly random upswings. The app Courf had finally recommended for tracking his cycle had… clarified things nicely. 

He’s in a good mood when he arrives at the meeting: the hearing that morning went well, better than even Enjolras dared to hope; a far-right party was soundly defeated in a foreign election; the songbirds have started to return from their winter vacations. 

And Grantaire comes in, his hair tangled and cheeks rosy from the light wind, smiling a smile that, unless Enjolras is imagining things, grows wider when he meets Enjolras’s eyes. 

Grantaire doesn’t contribute to the discussion, but he does look up from his origami more often. Enjolras’s eyes track the progression of Grantaire’s fingers on the paper, and then the distribution of the creations themselves. The first crane goes to Jehan, who’s sitting to Grantaire’s left. From there, it becomes a bit more random, as their friends whisper requests. 

Near the end of the meeting, Grantaire catches his eye and flicks a just-finished origami across the table toward him: it’s a rooster, folded from bright red paper. Enjolras fights down a blush. 

“ _Vive la France_ ,” Grantaire says in a stage whisper. 

Enjolras carefully sets the paper rooster (the paper _cock_ ) to the side of his laptop. He knows he’s only imagining that the paper has retained the warmth of Grantaire’s hands, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing the meeting were over already, so he could examine each deft fold and crease. 

The group slowly scatters as the meeting ends: Marius and Cosette for dinner with her father; Eponine and Musichetta for a club that’s hosting a riot grrrl night; Joly and Combeferre for a study session. Grantaire lingers, so Enjolras does the same. As Jehan and Courfeyrac begin debating where they should stop for food on the way home, he slips out of the conversation and toward Grantaire. 

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, holding up the origami. 

“No problem,” says Grantaire. “I’ve got something else for you, actually.” 

“Oh?” Enjolras’s voice comes out a little higher than he’d like. 

Grantaire leans over to open his bag. 

_A gift_. Enjolras’s heart races ahead of his mind, which is attempting to remind him that it could be a non-courting gift, it probably _is_ a non-courting gift—something for the ABC, something light and platonic. 

Grantaire straightens up and passes him a tinfoil-wrapped package. 

Enjolras accepts it immediately, just so it doesn’t fall, although his heart definitely does. It’s not the standard way of presenting courting gifts—custom dictates that the gifter place the gift on a neutral surface—and yet the table is still largely covered by flyers and origami scraps, so maybe…? 

“I baked you some bread this morning,” Grantaire says. “For your mid-cycle.” 

The words aren’t right—the words aren’t right at all—but the gift. 

It’s a courting gesture. 

Mid-cycle food—an offering of substance—a symbol, outdated as it might be, that the gifter will pay attention to their mate and provide for their needs—Enjolras’s heart is doing a wild, happy dance, and his hands, clasped securely around the bread, are trembling. 

“Your gift is well-met, and I receive it with joy,” Enjolras recites, pleased that he doesn’t stumble over the phrases he’s never used outside of secondary school health class. That finished, he lets the grin overtake his face. 

“And a full stomach?” Grantaire winks. 

Enjolras’s smile falters. That’s _not_ how the conversation is supposed to go, and yet—Grantaire’s reply clearly wasn’t a negative response. It might not have been the formal recognition of Enjolras’s thanks and acceptance, but it was positive nonetheless. Right? 

Grantaire isn’t a particularly formal person—more of a wild, free love type, at least at first glance—why would he bother with the traditional language? Maybe he thinks Enjolras is weird for insisting upon it in his reply, given… everything about Enjolras. Maybe he’s trying to make courtship more—fun. Less stilted, more modern. More personalized. 

Enjolras can do that. Enjolras can do fun. 

“And a full stomach,” he confirms. 

_A courting gift_ , he thinks on his way home. He’s giddy and somehow restless with the thought of it. He’s so eager to get back to his apartment—to taste the gift, to satisfy himself with Grantaire’s offering—his feet barely seem to touch the pavement. He’s not floating, exactly; he’s not weightless, not at all. He feels present in his body in a way he almost never does, like he’s inhabiting every atom more than usual. It’s more that he’s sparking, so every contact with the ground propels him further and faster toward his goal than on ordinary, Grantaire-less days. 

Once home, he retrieves the bread from his bag and places it on the counter with reverence. He wishes he’d thought to ask Grantaire for suggestions, instructions. Which jams does it pair well with? Should he heat it up?

His mind offers up an image of Grantaire baking in Enjolras’s kitchen, Enjolras eating the bread almost directly out of the oven, fresh and warm. 

It’s far too soon for that in reality, of course, but a little fantasy never hurt anyone. 

He peels open the tinfoil and cuts a thick slice. He nibbles on a corner, just to get an idea of the taste before deciding on preserves. Flavor bursts onto his tongue. The bread is perfectly chewy, and Grantaire enlivened what might have otherwise been a serviceable but bland loaf of wheat bread by adding a variety of herbs—parsley, Enjolras thinks, and thyme, in addition to some other seasonings? Simon & Garfunkel type herbs, anyway. 

He’s tempted to devour the slice right there, standing at the counter, but he forces himself to sit. To savor. Each bite is rich in flavor, flavor that Grantaire created _for him_. 

He goes to bed that night full and sated. 

On Saturday, he agonizes over what to text Grantaire. Should he keep it casual? Go for flirty? He wishes he’d bothered to practice some of these apparently necessary skills in school or university. Then maybe he wouldn’t be so flustered now—but none of the alphas in secondary school or university interested him the way Grantaire does. 

At length, he settles on, _Thanks for the bread! It’s delicious._

Polite, casual so as not to stray from the tone of their conversation last night, open enough for Grantaire to respond with something flirtier if he likes. 

Enjolras is hanging up his work shirts to dry when his phone buzzes with Grantaire’s reply. 

_Grantaire:_ Glad it turned out okay! 

_Grantaire_ : I was going to make another loaf or two for Jehan/Courf today but CLIENT EMERGENCY for a regular so I don’t think that’s going to happen 

_Grantaire_ : I’ll make it up to them next month 

_Grantaire:_ Back to InDesign for me! Have a good Saturday [smiley face emoji]

_What_. 

Seriously: _what_? 

Enjolras sits down on his living room floor. In a calm, deliberate fashion, of course. It’s a well-known fact that good thinking happens on hard floors, surrounded by damp button-downs he’ll iron tomorrow. 

Grantaire knows Jehan and Courfeyrac are together and aren’t looking for an alpha third. He knows that. So… so if he was contemplating giving them bread—for their mid-cycles, which synced up with Enjolras’s years ago—then it follows that Grantaire doesn’t see the gift as inherently romantic. As a courting gesture. 

Enjolras was wrong. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath. 

No wonder Grantaire didn’t use the “right” words yesterday. God, Enjolras made such a fool of himself, and Grantaire was so _good_ about it, didn’t call him on the mistake, just gently corrected it by using a teasing—no, friendly—reply. 

Enjolras draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs, and rests his cheek on his knees. Compact mortification. 

He just… he just wanted Grantaire, so badly, he’d turned a nice gesture into something it wasn’t. 

Even though mid-cycle food _is_ romantic. Enjolras hasn’t figured out where they went wrong there, but—it’s not Grantaire’s fault, anyway. 

Unless Grantaire meant it as a courting gesture but freaked out over Enjolras’s formal reply, and is trying to (nicely! so nicely!) let them both pretend it was a mistake by saying he was planning on baking for Jehan and Courfeyrac as well? Maybe Grantaire thought Enjolras—radical activist-group leading Enjolras—would be up for a non-traditional courtship. 

Which he could be!

Maybe? 

He needs some warning, that’s all. An adjustment period. 

A mourning period, maybe, because it’s not that he doesn’t recognize the ridiculousness of the traditions, but it’s the one area of his life he’s allowed himself to have—forgiven himself for having—traditional, romantic whimsies. He wants gifts given with clear intent and words spoken that allow for instant mutual understanding. He wants careful touches, followed by sure ones. 

But mostly he wants Grantaire. Grantaire bakes him bread and folds him origami and it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t use the right words—hardly wouldn’t matter, anyway, Enjolras would make it not matter—if the intention were still the same. Enjolras just doesn’t _know_. 

Enjolras uncurls for long enough to situate himself on the couch, where he promptly re-curls. It’s better to be lost and adrift while nestled in a couch, than lost and adrift on the middle of an unforgiving floor. 

He’ll let himself feel hurt and confused and, okay, a little humiliated for a while, because Combeferre (… and Courfeyrac, and Jehan, and Joly) have spent years insisting to him that he can take time to let his emotions _be_ , before channeling them into sharp and righteous fury. 

He doesn’t need fury now, though. 

He needs a plan. 


	4. Chapter 4

The opportunity to carry out his plan presents itself in the form of a string of texts from Grantaire on Monday morning. Enjolras doesn’t respond until his lunch break—his love life does not take precedence over police brutality, at least not until 12:30—which gives his subconscious a little time mull things over. 

He eschews the staff room, where he normally eats, and holes up at his desk, keeping his phone carefully away from his re-heated soup. 

_Grantaire_ : In need of some insider advice again. I’m thinking of throwing a kind of housewarming party? I was staying in a temporary place for the first month and then another for a second, but I’ve been in an actual apartment for a couple of months now and it’s finally livable and I finally know people so I thought…? 

_Grantaire_ : But I don’t know if that’s something you guys do? Let me know if you think that’s a terrible idea. I was thinking this Saturday, but again you should tell me if there’s some unspoken rule about no non-movie night gatherings on Saturdays because of whatever. 

_Grantaire_ : Hope you enjoyed the rest of the bread [balloon emoji] [oven emoji] 

The bread, _again_. Why would Grantaire bring it up today if he thought either one of them would be made uncomfortable or embarrassed by referencing it? He wouldn’t, Enjolras knows. That’s not the kind of person Grantaire is. Enjolras opts to ignore the bread situation—even though that might be rude, even though he did manage to enjoy the rest of the bread, because confused emotions couldn’t distort its taste. 

_Enjolras_ : By temporary place, you mean the bookshop where Jehan works? 

The reply is almost immediate. 

_Grantaire:_ What?

_Enjolras_ : When Combeferre first told me you would be joining the group, he may have said you were squatting in the art section. 

_Grantaire_ : sldfj oh my god please tell me this whole time you haven’t actually thought I was living in the bookstore

_Enjolras_ : I was… 80% sure it was a Jehanism but I couldn’t be certain. 

_Grantaire_ : I left when it closed! Every night! I was working on a project that needed a fuck ton of research and also prepping for classes so I guess I kind of overstayed my welcome trying to find what I needed

_Grantaire_ : Also Jehan was really cool to talk to and moving was kind of rough 

_Grantaire_ : Sorry, that’s depressing 

Enjolras decides not to mention that he’d mentally referred to Grantaire as “Jehan’s stray” before meeting him. 

_Enjolras_ : Given that Jehan adopted you, I’d say you have no worries on the “overstayed your welcome” front. 

_Enjolras_ : But back to your question: have you met this group? They LOVE housewarming parties. Joly is probably going to be sad you waited so long, and Jehan will be sad you waited until it was livable to invite us over. Etc., all the way down the line. 

_Grantaire_ : Including you? 

Enjolras nearly knocks over his bowl in his haste to reply. 

_Enjolras_ : Including me. 

_Enjolras_ : Feuilly and Eponine work some Saturdays, but I think they’re off this weekend. And even though we try to plan things around various scheduling conflicts… there are a lot of us. If someone can’t make it, they’ll catch the next one. 

Grantaire sends a half-dozen different smiling emoticons. Enjolras sends one back. 

That night, after Grantaire sends his invitation to the group text, the replies come in as expected. 

_Cosette_ : What a fun idea! Marius and I would be delighted to come! 

_Eponine_ : … Next time you need to move, hit me up, that is a ridiculous backstory and it does not take almost three months to make a place livable. 

_Eponine_ : I’ll be there. 

_Jehan_ : All the fun happens when an apartment ISN’T livable yet [frowny face emoji]

_Courfeyrac_ : Jehan and I will be there! We’re excited to see your place! Thanks for the invite! 

_Combeferre_ : Unfortunately, I’m scheduled for a hospital shift Saturday (… and Sunday). 

Enjolras limits himself to a quick _looking forward to it_. 

He’s got a plan to implement, which means he has a housewarming present to buy. 

  


Enjolras talks himself in and out of the present at least three times an hour throughout the rest of the week—or, if not the present itself, at least the words he’s planning on presenting it with. But he’s not, well, _himself_ , for nothing. There’s nothing stopping him from clarifying his own intentions, and thereby, hopefully, Grantaire’s. While omegas tend not to give as many gifts as they receive over the course of a courtship, they typically give some to demonstrate their reciprocal affection and any other specific traits they wish to remind their alpha that they possess. Enjolras doesn’t exactly have traditional omega qualities that could be encapsulated by that kind of gift, but to hell with tradition, anyway. 

At least, that aspect of tradition. 

Maybe Grantaire doesn’t like him (doesn’t want to court him), and he’d been too startled by Enjolras’s traditional acceptance of a platonically-intended gift to properly correct him; Enjolras offering him a gift (with the proper words) at least gives him another chance to say ‘no.’ Enjolras doesn’t want him to say no—he, really, really doesn’t want him to say no—but he needs to get back on firm ground. Should he continue to indulge in fantasies in which Grantaire’s gestures of physical affection, so casually directed at the other members of their group, become directed at him as well, less casually and less platonically? 

Or should he begin training his mind to steer clear of thoughts of Grantaire’s curls and Grantaire’s fingers and what either would feel like under Enjolras’s own caress? With each passing day, Grantaire becomes more firmly entrenched in the group, and Enjolras wouldn’t change that, especially not to coddle his own damn runaway feelings, which means it’s best for all involved if he figure out Grantaire’s thoughts once and for all, before Enjolras can get too carried away. 

The other possibility is that Grantaire does want to court him, but assumed Enjolras wouldn’t want even a hint of a traditional courtship, which is not, Enjolras can admit, a far-fetched assumption to make. In that case, all Enjolras has to do is demonstrate that he’s not opposed to the idea—that he’ll actively participate in a clear-cut courtship—and they’ll be back on the same page again. Enjolras would settle for the same chapter; at this point, he’s not even certain they’re reading the same book. 

Grantaire already knows that Enjolras isn’t shy about expressing his opinions and is comfortable taking charge. If he wants to court Enjolras, then he won’t mind if Enjolras brings these qualities into their courtship; presumably, he already expects it. Maybe (hopefully?), he’s even waiting for it. And if he doesn’t, he won’t be shocked or offended by Enjolras’s blunt statement of intentions. 

… Right? 

Enjolras is ninety-seven percent convinced by his own logic and analysis of both possibilities, but that doesn’t stop him from spending about an hour in front of the mirror before leaving for Grantaire’s, wishing someone had taught him how to use a comb. Normally, he’d text Combeferre about what to wear, but Combeferre’s at the hospital, and Enjolras doesn’t want to take up any break time he has with stupid things like _what is an outfit I’ll feel attractive yet comfortable in, and also not like an idiot if Grantaire rejects my gift_. 

It’s a tricky balance, and not one Enjolras is used to negotiating. It’s not one he’s ever negotiated, actually. He knows how to dress for protests—ones where he’s only marching, and ones where he’s speaking—how to dress for the office, how to dress for court. He knows he can throw on any old t-shirt and jeans for movie night. It’s that _soft but not sloppy_ dilemma again, except Enjolras is aiming for a little sharper than that tonight. 

Unless he shouldn’t be? 

Enjolras frowns at himself in front of the mirror. It’s a house warming party. Houses should be soft. That’s the point of them. It would be insulting, wouldn’t it, to walk into somebody’s new space in clothes not meant for flopping on couches? Especially given that the entire point of tonight is to show Grantaire that Enjolras not only wants to flop onto his couch, but would fit there. So: no pointed edges. 

(Enjolras reminds himself that the entire point of tonight is actually for Grantaire to welcome his new friends to his new apartment, but he’s allowed to have his own goals.) 

Changing his shirt three more times distracts him from speculating too much on Grantaire’s apartment: if he’ll like it, if he won’t, how his range of realistic fantasies will double once he can imagine Grantaire in both Enjolras’s apartment and his own. 

Enjolras is debating changing his jeans (again) when his phone buzzes. 

_Grantaire_ : Last chance to tell me you were joking and I definitely should not host this 

_Enjolras_ : We don’t joke about gatherings and I don’t joke about living spaces. 

(Nests. He means nests.) 

_Enjolras_ : I’m about to leave, so it’s too late! You’re hosting. 

_Grantaire_ : That’s settled then 

_Grantaire_ : See you soon [smiley face emoji] 

  


Enjolras is almost grateful Grantaire’s back is to him when he enters the apartment, which means he has a full second to safely become flushed and wide-eyed. 

It’s a technically studio apartment, but larger than most Enjolras saw in his student days, and with a jutting wall that mostly separates Grantaire’s bed from the rest of the space. The furniture is mismatched in terms of precise style and color, but there are no sharp edges or harsh lines, and the roundness of it all makes for a harmony all its own. Cosette and Marius are already tucked into the sofa, while Courf and Jehan cuddle in a beanbag that’s surely positioned to catch the afternoon sun from the window. There’s color, too, a lot of it, but not to the extent that it’s overwhelming or claustrophobic, with a multicolored braided rug on the center of the floor and a half-dozen prints on the walls. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras can see that the fridge is covered in childish watercolors, held up by tacky magnet replicas of la Sagrada Família, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Parthenon—even the Eiffel Tower. 

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac says loudly. He and Jehan extricate themselves from the beanbag with some difficulty as they stand to greet him. “Isn’t Grantaire’s place great?” 

Only Grantaire whipping around at Courfeyrac’s words spares Courfeyrac from a withering glare. 

“It is,” Enjolras says, turning to Grantaire. “It’s really…” His brain is tripping over itself, spinning into circles, unable to decide if he should use nest words or save those for later, wait until he knows how Grantaire will accept his gift. “It suits you.” 

“Thanks?” 

“In a good way!” Enjolras insists. 

“All right, all right,” Grantaire says, smiling now. “Well, um, welcome. Something to drink?” He tilts his head toward the galley kitchen; Enjolras follows him, with a pointed look at Courfeyrac and Jehan to inform them that any further interference is unnecessary. 

“But first…” Enjolras says, fighting to keep his voice steady, as he places the heavy gift bag on the counter. His heart is pounding. He shouldn’t be this nervous, right? He doesn’t _get_ nervous, not for court dates, not for rallies, and Grantaire is a hell of a lot less intimidating than two or three dozen police officers in riot gear. Nobody’s in danger of breaking a limb, here. 

“Oh!” says Grantaire. “You didn’t have to, seriously, that’s really—”

_Please be quiet and let me give this to you properly_ , Enjolras thinks. 

“I hope you will do me the honor of receiving this gesture of my respect,” Enjolras says. If Grantaire had given the bread with the traditional words, Enjolras could have dared to substitute “affection,” but he decided this morning that if he’s going to start more or less from the beginning, he should do it properly: respect, followed by affection. 

Grantaire is quiet, but that’s all right: he needs to open the gift first, of course. He plucks out the top layer of green tissue paper and carefully extracts the tall vase from the bag. The vase itself is nice enough—locally made by a glassblower Jehan knows, mostly clear with swirls of color unfurling here and there, deeper near the base and becoming more translucent as the waves of color curl and crash further up the stem—but it really is only a vessel for the main present. Inside the vase are five wooden kitchen utensils, loosely tied together with a blue ribbon, like a bouquet. 

Enjolras holds his breath as Grantaire lifts the spoons out of the vase. Technically, only one of them is really what Enjolras would classify as a spoon—the others are more akin to spoon hybrids, meant for mysterious and specific food preparation needs that Enjolras can’t begin to fathom but that he suspects Grantaire can. Grantaire makes a small noise as the handles of the spoons catch his eye: Enjolras had them engraved, so every handle is marked with _Grantaire’s Kitchen_ in loopy cursive. 

“Enjolras…” Grantaire’s eyes are wide; the smile on his face is smaller than the one he usually flashes in meetings, but it’s no less genuine. 

Enjolras’s heart hitches. _Finish the sentence_ , he begs. _Tell me yes. Tell me it’s received with joy._

“This is amazing, like—how did you even manage to get these personalized already? And the vase is so gorgeous, thank you. It’s perfect—it’s all perfect,” Grantaire says. 

Grantaire is looking Enjolras in the eye, his face open and guileless and _happy_ , and Enjolras has no idea what’s going on. 

“I,” Enjolras starts, desperately trying to see if there’s a way to get them back on track. “So you—like them?” 

“I’ll have to cook you something special with them, and I’m going to put the vase out on the coffee table right away,” Grantaire says with a wink. “I love them, Enjolras.” 

“Right,” says Enjolras. He tries to keep the hurt and confusion out of his voice, and maybe he only partially succeeds, but it doesn’t matter, because the next second the door is pushed open again, Musichetta, Bahorel, and Joly’s laughter tumbling over the threshold, and whatever was happening or might have been happening in the kitchen is whisked away as Grantaire throws him a last smile before greeting his new guests. 

Enjolras spends most of the night tucked against Courfeyrac or Jehan, his heart twisting a little more each time he sees the vase in pride of place on the coffee table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to thingsbeginningwitha for the personalized spoons idea!


	5. Chapter 5

Combeferre’s at the hospital again on Sunday, so Enjolras mopes around the apartment by himself. 

Or. It’s not moping. He’s regrouping and reevaluating, that’s all. 

Enjolras is pretty sure that omegas also give courtship gifts in eastern and southern Europe, so that can’t be the issue—unless it was wrong of him to try to sneak in a courtship gift under the guise of a housewarming present? The others brought little things, too—coasters and whatnot. He probably just confused Grantaire, _again_. 

It’s not as if Grantaire didn’t like the presents—he did, he said so, more than once throughout the night. So that’s… something. Better than nothing. He was probably bewildered by the attempted combination, conflation, of giving reasons, that’s all. Enjolras knows Grantaire isn’t the type to willfully ignore a courtship gesture… maybe he was even trying to be a gentleman, given that the gifting occasion wasn’t exactly happening in private. 

Yes, Enjolras decides, that’s probably it. Grantaire wouldn’t want to respond either way—neither an acceptance nor a rejection—basically in full view of their friends. It’s a sign of the value Grantaire places on their friendship, regardless of his would-be answer, and Enjolras was surely meant to take his effusive thanks as a sign that Grantaire _wasn’t_ ignoring the gesture, simply postponing the conversation, out of respect. 

Enjolras wishes he’d realized this last night. He hadn’t exactly ignored Grantaire—he’d tried hard to appear as if nothing was wrong—but Grantaire’s perceptive. Now he’s probably even _more_ confused. 

_But then when are we going to talk?_ Enjolras wonders. 

He’s itching to text Grantaire, to ask him to meet at a café—or, no, a park, much more private. Grantaire won’t mind Enjolras taking the initiative, but… but maybe Enjolras should wait. Enjolras gave the gift; now it’s Grantaire’s turn. He’ll respond when he’s ready. 

  


Monday passes without so much as a cat gif from Grantaire, and Tuesday starts off the same, until there’s a flurry in the group text because it turns out Enjolras took home the posters Feuilly needs and there’s a lot of convoluted hemming and hawing about how exactly Feuilly is going to get those posters, until Grantaire volunteers to pick them up from Enjolras’s that night and drop them off at Feuilly’s job before his art class on Wednesday afternoon. 

_Enjolras_ : Are you sure? I can figure something else out, this is my fault. 

_Grantaire_ : Feuilly works tonight, his place is not anywhere near yours and you definitely can’t leave work in the middle of the day tomorrow to get to his, so… 

_Eponine_ : Oh my god Enjolras did you miss the last 30 messages? We are not relitigating this 

_Enjolras_ : Okay. Thanks, R! I really appreciate it. 

_Grantaire_ : Happy to help! 

In their own chat, they decide that Grantaire will stop by about nine, which means Enjolras has a solid few hours at home after work in which to panic. 

Grantaire can’t come over. He just can’t. 

Grantaire’s place—his place in this new city, this new country—is already so perfectly _Grantaire_ , cheery and colorful and as bright as a Parisian studio can possibly be. It’s cozy and _soft_ and, in short, is a nest to be proud of. 

Enjolras’s apartment, on the other hand… 

It’s not that he hates it, exactly. He simply tries to spend very little time in it, and can’t work up the energy to do anything different with it when he’s here. The lack of throw pillows on the couch, which Enjolras can normally brush aside as an unimportant detail, now seems like an insurmountable obstacle, incontrovertible proof of his failures as an omega. He can’t even _nest_ properly, and Grantaire is going to see that—Grantaire, with his artist’s eye—and if he was wavering on accepting Enjolras’s courtship gift before… 

Three minutes to nine, Grantaire rings the bell, and Enjolras buzzes him up, then unlocks the door. Consequently, he’s able to pull it open almost before Grantaire has finished knocking. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire, letting his hand fall. 

“Hey,” says Enjolras. “Uh, come in.” He jerks his head toward the main room. 

If it wouldn’t have been rude, he would have met Grantaire downstairs, so Grantaire never had to see this bare disaster of a nest. 

“They’re just, um, here,” says Enjolras, waving a hand toward the stack of posters on the table. 

“Great,” says Grantaire. 

Enjolras wonders if he should ask him to stay for a drink—surely it’s bad manners to not even offer coffee—but he also wants to limit Grantaire’s time in the apartment as much as possible. Just because he hasn’t run away screaming yet doesn’t mean he won’t if he’s forced to stay in the drab room any longer than necessary. 

Grantaire walks over to the posters and begins to arrange them in the large plastic shopping bag he’d brought. 

_Stupid_ , Enjolras thinks. He should have done that already. 

“Good day?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras is thrown by the casual nature of the question, as if the last time they’d really spoken hadn’t been the spoon-and-vase incident. 

_We’re in private now_ , Enjolras thinks. _You can answer me now_. 

But if even part of Grantaire’s courtship reticence on Saturday had been due to the conflation of two events, then maybe he won’t say anything tonight, either. Maybe he wants to keep the courtship special, separate from chance errands for the group. Enjolras can understand that. 

“Yes, actually,” Enjolras manages to respond. “We’re making some good progress on—well, I can’t say which case, exactly, but it’s one that’s important to me.” 

“I’m sure it’s important to a lot of other people, too, then,” says Grantaire. 

“That’s… the hope,” says Enjolras. 

Grantaire shifts his weight. “Not to—rush out, or anything, but I’ve kind of got a midnight deadline for something, and I’m sure you’ve got… stuff to do…” 

“Shit, you didn’t have to come over if it was going to interrupt your work—I’m sorry, I would have figured something else out if I’d known—”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and picks up the bag of posters. 

“It’s fine, really,” he says. “It was good to get out, take a bit of a break. I just meant, I can’t really stay.” 

_It’s not a good time to have a courtship conversation_ , Enjolras translates. 

That’s fine. It means Grantaire respects the process, respects him, too much to make it a rushed moment between work duties. 

“Well, I appreciate it,” says Enjolras. 

“You’re welcome,” says Grantaire. 

They say their goodnights, and if Enjolras watches Grantaire’s departing figure from the window, at least he doesn’t have a roommate anymore to call him on it. 

  


As Enjolras is leaving work on Thursday, his phone buzzes with a text. He almost drops it when he realizes the text is from Grantaire, asking to “stop by” in about an hour because he’ll be “in the neighborhood.” 

_This is it_ , Enjolras thinks. 

His heart, brain, and every organ in between are doing a (mostly) joyful internal dance. 

Grantaire hasn’t been scared away by his depressing apartment, or his constant awkwardness, or his spoons. Grantaire is coming over, just him, just _for_ him: no friends, no business to take care of. 

The métro ride passes in a daze, Enjolras too wrapped up in the dazzling possibility of Grantaire to be bothered by the uncomfortable press of strangers’ bodies, the profusion of stray elbows and oversized bags. Once home, he doesn’t change out of his work clothes entirely, but he does remove his jacket and tie. He debates rolling up his sleeves—that’s a good look right? It’s a good look on other people, anyway—but decides that’s too obviously trying too hard. Enjolras is not a rolled-up-sleeves-for-no-reason kind of person, and Grantaire already knows this. (Although… maybe… he could be? Enjolras tables this thought for later contemplation.) 

The first thing Enjolras notices upon opening the door for Grantaire—fine, other than his bashful smile and riotous curls and Queen t-shirt—is the large wrapped package he’s carrying. 

“Hey,” says Enjolras. “Come on in.” 

Enjolras is already beaming; he almost wants to fast-forward five, ten minutes. His couch isn’t as comfortable as Grantaire’s, but it’s comfortable enough for a bit of kissing. Enjolras has to force himself from getting too caught up in the fantasy: Grantaire’s hands are never going to get on his waist or under his shirt if he can’t coherently manage a bit of conversation first. 

“I brought this for you,” says Grantaire, unnecessarily. “As a thank-you for the presents.” 

Enjolras’s mind stutters over that for a moment—the presents could at least be passed off housewarming presents—but housewarming presents don’t require return gifts, no, this is clearly a reciprocation of the underlying intent (confused as the courtship message may have been). 

Grantaire sets the gift on the table. 

Enjolras waits for the courtship words, but Grantaire is silent, smiling hesitantly at Enjolras, his hands in his pockets. 

He’s nervous? Maybe he’s too nervous to say them. Maybe he thinks since Enjolras said them already, with his present over the weekend—maybe it’s another one of their courtship style differences, maybe he’s being deferential, choosing to let Enjolras decide when to move the gifting words from “respect” to “affection.” 

With careful movements, Enjolras unwraps the present. 

It’s a throw blanket.

His breath catches, and his hand involuntarily shifts away from the wrapping paper to caress it. It’s soft, so soft, of course it is, he wouldn’t expect anything less from Grantaire, Grantaire would never give a blanket less than perfectly soft. It’s not too thick, it won’t be too stifling as the weather gets warmer, but it’s not one of those useless throws, meant more for decoration than practical use. There’s real comfort to be provided. 

Enjolras moves in a daze, brushing off the last of the wrapping paper, unfurling the blanket to its full length. He manages to stop himself from rubbing a corner against his cheek, but it’s a close thing. The blanket—it smells like Grantaire. 

Not a lot, nothing obscene, but enough to let Enjolras know that Grantaire thoroughly touched it while selecting and wrapping it. That Grantaire wants Enjolras to remember the gift is specifically from _him_ , not anybody else. 

_He got me a blanket_ , Enjolras thinks, over and over. _A blanket._

Grantaire didn’t look at his apartment on Tuesday and think Enjolras was a failed omega, a bad prospect for a mate. He doesn’t blame Enjolras for not making the nest soft and warm all by himself; he’s offering to help.

But. 

It’s a blanket, and one with Grantaire’s scent on it at that. 

It’s too much, far too soon. 

A blanket is a late-stage courtship gift, maybe middle, but never this close to the beginning. They’d barely even managed to establish they _were_ courting, after all. It’s intimate; it has implications of a future joined nest. 

A blanket (a _scented_ blanket, Enjolras reminds himself) is serious business, and Enjolras—Enjolras can’t. No matter how much he wants to burrow into it, no matter how much he wants Grantaire, his hands and his curls and his smile—no matter how much he’s tried to make allowances for their different courtship styles—this, he can’t do. If only Grantaire had _waited_. 

Enjolras takes a deep, shaky breath. He sets the blanket back on the table. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks. His voice is quiet, uncertain. 

“Your gift is…” Enjolras can’t make himself say the traditional words. This is _Grantaire_ , with his origami and kids’ art class… his homemade bread. He clears his throat, starts again. “I thank you for the honor you do me with this gift. I regret my inability to accept it for what it is, and hope that this act will not tarnish our affiliation.” 

It’s a longer, slightly more old-fashioned response than the standard yes and no responses in current usage, but Enjolras felt it was important to emphasize his wish for their continued friendship. It’s the kind of answer an omega might have given to the child of their parents’ business partners, when the courtship offer was extended more as a courtesy than a real offer of love. 

“… Affiliation,” Grantaire repeats, slowly. 

Enjolras flushes. So Grantaire _has_ been thrown by Enjolras’s insistence on using traditional phrasings. Maybe they are too formal, too impersonal for people who are already friends. For them, anyway. Dammit. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. 

They stand there in silence for a few moments, both looking down at the unfolded blanket on the table. 

“I’m, uh… going to go,” Grantaire says. 

He backs away from the table, and even though Enjolras should remind him to take the blanket with him, he only manages a choked “good night” before Grantaire is gone. 

_Fuck_ , Enjolras thinks. 

Grantaire is gone, and the damn blanket is still on the table. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joked with a few of you in comments on the last chapter that you were going to like this one. As it turns out, I'd completely forgotten that the second half of chapter six is... part of chapter six, not chapter seven. Whoops. More for you! 
> 
> Brief warning that Grantaire speaks flippantly and disparagingly about his own mental health. 
> 
> Happy Labor Day weekend to all of my U.S. readers!

It hurts to look at Grantaire at the meeting on Friday, but Enjolras can’t not look, either. 

Grantaire looks—tired, actually. Subdued. He doesn’t joke as much as he normally does with Bahorel; he doesn’t braid anything into Jehan’s hair. 

_This is my fault_ , Enjolras thinks. 

Not the rejection, per se: Enjolras knows he has that right, and he knows Grantaire knows that, too. Grantaire’s not some Nice Alpha™ asshole. But he does want to stay friends with Grantaire (fuck, he still wants to _court_ Grantaire, he just wants to move back several steps in the process). He never intended to hurt Grantaire, not like this; maybe he’d been too cold. 

( _No wonder you don’t have a mate_ , a snide part of him says.) 

As soon as the official meeting is over, he slips over to Courfeyrac, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

“What’s up, Enj?” Courfeyrac asks. “You seem kind of down today. And, um… R, too.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You want to come over tonight? J’s going to a séance but I can stay back,” Courfeyrac offers. 

“I don’t want to disrupt your plans,” says Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac twists, snagging the sleeve of Jehan’s shirt. “Hey, baby, you okay to head to Shelley’s by yourself? Enjolras needs a shoulder.” 

“Of course,” Jehan replies. They tap Enjolras on the nose. “Do you want me, too, or would two people be overwhelming right now?” 

“Overwhelming,” Enjolras admits. 

“Okay,” Jehan says. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.” 

They share a slightly-too-passionate-for-public-consumption kiss with Courfeyrac before drifting out of the café, and Courfeyrac, sensing that Enjolras isn’t fit for group interaction, gently tugs him out shortly after. 

They take the bus to Courfeyrac and Jehan’s apartment, for which Enjolras is grateful. The métro grated on him on the ride to the meeting, and he’s not sure he can take much more of its particular overstimulation. Even the thought of descending the stairs to a station is repulsive. 

Courfeyrac steers Enjolras toward their couch (their worn, lumpy couch that smells of _them_ , of their happy, solid bond), then disappears into the kitchen to make tea. He hums while the water boils, a cheerful pop tune whose title Enjolras can’t remember. 

“All right,” Courfeyrac says, handing Enjolras his tea and sitting down next to him. “What’s the trouble?” 

Enjolras takes a sip, sighs, and tells him everything—the bread, the vase and spoons, the confusion over personalized versus straightforward and traditional courtship, the damn perfect blanket and Grantaire’s response to Enjolras’s reluctant refusal. 

“Oh, dear,” says Courfeyrac. “That’s a lot for you to deal with.” 

“And he’s an alpha,” Enjolras whines. 

“That’s not his fault,” Courfeyrac quips, but it’s a hesitant quip, clearly unsure what to do with this relatively flippant addition. 

“We don’t know anyone in an A-O bond,” Enjolras says, opting to ignore Courf, meaning, _there’s no one to tell me how to do this and I’m desperate for it work anyway_. “How do we not know anyone in an A-O bond? Almost all of our friends have partners! And still!” 

Courfeyrac gives him a look. “And all of our friends are in a radical social justice group, so maybe if you’re looking for—”

“Don’t finish that,” Enjolras says. 

Courfeyrac tugs Enjolras down, until his head is pillowed in Courfeyrac’s lap, and begins to stroke his hair. 

It’s nice. Platonic omega-omega petting is important. Platonic petting in general is important. (He still wishes he at least had the option of being in this position with Grantaire. Or the reverse: Enjolras has a lot of fantasies involve his fingers in Grantaire’s curls.) 

“You like him?” Courf asks. 

“Have you had a conversation with me in the last two months?” 

“Play nicely.” 

“Yes, I like him.” 

Courf knows all this already. 

“And he’s good to you?” 

“Yes.” 

More than Enjolras deserves. 

“And he’s good to other people? Friends and wait staff?” 

“He helped three tourists who were lost on the métro last week,” Enjolras complains. 

“Quelle horreur,” Courf gasps. “Well, never mind everything else about him—his hair and his eyes and—”

“—his hands,” Enjolras adds mournfully. 

“—clearly this is a disqualifying trait,” Courfeyrac finishes. 

“You’re not helping,” says Enjolras. 

“He’s a catch, Enj,” says Courf. “Or so you tell me, I can’t pretend to understand your attraction to alphas. You’re not a stereotype. You’re living your life, and that life happens to include a great guy you like a lot, who happens to be an alpha.” 

“Who doesn’t want me anymore,” Enjolras says into Courfeyrac’s thigh. 

“Enjolras,” Courf says seriously, “I am really sure that’s not true.” 

“He didn’t talk to me at all during the meeting on Friday. And he hasn’t texted.” 

“So he’s a little hurt. It doesn’t necessarily follow that he doesn’t want you anymore,” Courfeyrac reasons. 

“Stop channeling Ferre,” Enjolras says. 

“Sorry, had to try for a sec, given that he’s not here to give you the A perspective,” says Courf. “Speaking of which… why are you talking to me and not Ferre?” 

“Platonic O-O petting.” The words come out in a huff. 

Courf gives a little laugh. “Okay, then. But hey, maybe talk to Ferre? And maybe… cut Grantaire a little slack? I think you’re both hurting and a little confused about what the other person wants, so maybe you can both take a little time to regroup and be friends and then try again.” 

“But what if…. so if—if he likes me now, what if I let us regroup and then he _stops_ liking me?” 

“Then he stops liking you, but your friendship probably won’t be ruined,” Courfeyrac says. “For real, though, go talk to Combeferre, because, to be honest, my advice is to let me take you both clubbing, get you a little drunk, and see what happens from there.” 

“I hate clubbing,” says Enjolras. He thumps his head against Courfeyrac’s thigh. “I wanted a _courtship_ , is that so much to ask? Am I being too difficult?” 

“No,” Courfeyrac says at once. He rubs at Enjolras’s shoulder; simultaneously, they both sigh. 

Enjolras ends up staying the night, curled up on Courfeyrac and Jehan’s couched, tucked under a blanket that smells like the ABC. 

Enjolras doesn’t talk to Combeferre that weekend, as he knows Combeferre had a stupidly long shift, and doesn’t want to interrupt his free afternoon on Sunday with his ridiculous courtship problems. 

  


By the time the Friday meeting rolls around again, Grantaire still hasn’t texted him, and Enjolras can’t bring himself to text first. 

Even though—maybe—that’s his job? He rejected Grantaire’s present (which is still, painfully, folded over the back of his couch, in all it soft, sweet-smelling glory), so perhaps it’s up to him to open the conversation again, prod them back into active friendship. 

Enjolras climbs the stairs up to the Musain’s meeting room slowly. A few voices filter through the closed door; as he reaches the top, he realizes Grantaire’s is among them. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, when he hears his name. 

“—Enjolras again. He’s definitely upset with me, and I can’t figure it out,” Grantaire is saying. 

Enjolras’s heart catches painfully. 

_I’m not, I’m really not_ , he thinks, but he’s frozen, his hands hanging limply at his sides, and the mere thought of pushing open the door seems foreign and wholly impossible. 

“He’s seemed sad as well,” comes the reply: Jehan. 

“When’s the last time you two really talked?” And—there’s Combeferre. 

Enjolras now wishes he’d made more of an effort to reach out to Combeferre this week. To Grantaire, even. To spare them all this conversation, whatever it is. 

“Last Thursday, at his apartment. I, um. I brought him a present?” Grantaire’s voice goes up. 

“What?” Jehan and Combeferre ask in unison. 

“He gave me some housewarming presents, the weekend before? And I was at his place on Tuesday, right, to pick up the posters for Feuilly, and it just—it seemed like _he_ had never done a housewarming anything, so I wanted to return the gesture. It’s—did you know he doesn’t have any blankets or pillows or anything in the main room? That’s not right,” Grantaire insists. 

Enjolras winces. God, Grantaire thinks he’s _pathetic_.

“Grantaire…” says Combeferre. “What exactly did you give Enjolras?” 

If Enjolras weren’t so afraid of making noise, he’d let his head thud against the wall. As it is, he’s having some trouble staying upright. He’d like to sink into the floor, and preferably reappear with at least two thousand miles and a century or so between them. 

“A throw blanket,” says Grantaire. 

“Oh my god,” says Jehan. “R, you—really?” 

“What?” Grantaire bursts out. “Will somebody please, please explain to me what’s going on, because Enjolras reacted the same way, except not at all, he spoke—really, really strangely and I’m so fucking lost and I didn’t mean to offend him, and I really, really want to fix this.” 

“Okay,” Jehan says, their tone so soothing Enjolras is almost convinced they can solve everything themselves. “Okay, we’ll figure this out.” 

“Did you happen to… touch the blanket at all, before you gave it to him? Would your scent have been on it?” Combeferre asks. 

“Well, yeah, of course,” says Grantaire blankly. “I’m not going to give someone who clearly needs a blanket one that I never bothered to check to see if it was soft, and like… what’s even the point of giving someone who needs a blanket, a blanket that doesn’t smell like anything? There’s nothing comforting in a corporate-smelling blanket.” 

“So, what you’re saying is—” Jehan is _laughing_ , which Enjolras thinks is frankly unfair, to both of them. 

“R, I know you had good intentions, but that was really inappropriate,” says Combeferre.

“ _Basic quality control_ is _inappropriate_? What is wrong with this country?” Grantaire’s voice is bordering on frantic, and Enjolras is right there with him. 

Mentally. In theory. 

In practice, he’s still frozen on the other side of the door, his brain desperately trying to incorporate this new information, but he mostly feels like an overturned bike, wheels spinning, but uselessly, nothing to grip onto but air. 

“So… does this mean you’re _not_ courting Enjolras?” Combeferre asks. 

Enjolras presses a hand against his mouth. 

He shouldn’t be here. He absolutely should not be here. He should walk down the stairs, give them a few minutes to finish their conversation, and then return. Loudly, and ideally with another member of the group in tow. 

He should. 

“Of course I’m not courting Enjolras, are you crazy?” 

Oh shit. 

Oh, shit. 

Enjolras sinks down onto the top step. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He can’t cry. He won’t, he can’t. 

Isn’t this what they always say about eavesdroppers? 

He only got what he had coming to him. 

And now he’s going to stay to suffer through the rest. 

Of _course_ Grantaire isn’t courting Enjolras. 

Enjolras takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s not anything different from expected, really. Of _course_ Grantaire isn’t courting him. 

“But…” says Jehan. “I thought that you liked him? It seemed that you liked him.” 

( _It did_ , Enjolras thinks.) 

“Well, yeah,” says Grantaire. “He’s smart and thoughtful and _gorgeous_ and way too damn passionate for his own good, of course I _like_ him.” 

( _What_?)

( _Gorgeous_. Grantaire thinks he’s _gorgeous_.)

(Just not enough, apparently, to court him.) 

“Now _I’m_ feeling a little lost,” says Combeferre. His voice is gentle. “You like Enjolras—a lot, if I’m understanding you correctly.” 

There’s a pause before Combeferre continues, and Enjolras can only assume Grantaire made some sort of gesture. 

“And if you like him that much, why wouldn’t you court him?” 

“Did you, like, miss everything that I just said?” Grantaire asks. “Which is fine, I don’t listen to myself most of the time either, it’s better that way, good choice, but, uh—Enjolras? Is Enjolras? Actual-Apollo-Enjolras, who thinks he’s obligated to like métro on principle but actually hates using it? Social justice warrior who apparently denies himself _pillows_ and, not trying to criticize here, but he’s got a good social circle and not one of you ever bothered to fix that situation? _Meanwhile_ , I’m… not exactly great alpha material. I am, you know, the kind of crazy that comes with three diagnoses and pills that make me grateful for universal healthcare, but even _I’m_ not crazy enough to think I’m good enough to court Enjolras.” 

From the other side of the door, silence reigns. 

Enjolras can’t see Jehan and Combeferre’s faces, but he’s going to project and characterize the silence as ‘stunned’ anyway. 

“There’s a lot to unpack there,” Combeferre says, ever the diplomat. 

Enjolras feels hysteric laughter threatening to bubble up, and curls over on himself, pressing one cheek against his knee. 

“For the record,” Combeferre continues, “I think you’re good enough to court Enjolras. We all do.”

“Including Enjolras,” Jehan adds. 

Enjolras sits bolt upright. 

That’s—true, of course, but surely Jehan shouldn’t be telling Grantaire that instead of Enjolras—and in that case—

Enjolras stands and spins so abruptly that he doesn’t so much open the door and enter the room as topple through it, his bag slipping from his shoulder and landing painfully on his foot as his eyes meet Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire goes pale for about a second before color floods his cheeks. 

“Enjolras,” he says. 

“Shall Ferre and I remove ourselves from the vicinity?” Jehan asks slyly. 

Grantaire says nothing, just stares at Enjolras, his eyes wide with—horror, embarrassment, and maybe something else besides. 

“Yes,” says Enjolras. “Thank you.” 

Jehan ruffles Grantaire’s hair as they pass; Combeferre clasps a hand to Enjolras’s shoulder. They leave.

“I think,” Enjolras says carefully, “that there may have been some. Cultural misunderstandings.” 

Grantaire nods. He doesn’t seem to trust himself to speak. 

“I… I shouldn’t have listened in on your conversation with Combeferre and Jehan, and for that I’m very sorry. But—I did, and since I did, and now know…. what I know, or think I know, we might as well—I’d like it if we could clarify some things, directly.”

Grantaire nods again. 

“I’ve been under the impression that you were courting me, which I think—is not what you were intending to do.”

Grantaire shakes his head. 

“But you do like me. And I—I _really_ like you, so maybe we could try again?” Enjolras bites his lip. 

Grantaire covers his face in his hands. 

“R? Are you okay?” Enjolras takes a hesitant step forward. 

Grantaire lowers his hands. His cheeks are still flushed, his expression bashful, but at least there’s half a rueful smile. That’s progress, isn’t it?

“I was trying so hard _not_ to court you,” Grantaire says. There’s laughter in his voice. “I was telling myself every minute that I couldn’t, you’re so—not perfect, don’t worry, but—better than that. And here it turns out I’ve been accidentally courting you all along?” 

“Seems like it.” Enjolras clears his throat. “But, if it helps, I wanted you to?” 

“I’m… not trying to question your taste, but, Enj, I’m a terrible alpha.” 

Enjolras huffs and begins to tick off his fingers. “In my book, any alpha who bakes food for an omega’s mid-cycle, and buys a blanket for an omega’s nest, um, even if that’s a bit premature, and is generous and funny and creative and strong”—Enjolras feels himself blushing harder with each quality, and he’s staring at the floor, rather than at Grantaire—“is a catch.” 

Enjolras glances up. 

Grantaire is frowning. It’s not a bad frown—not angry or sad, more confused than anything. 

“But those are _beta_ traits,” Grantaire says.

“What?” 

“At least—in the neighborhoods I grew up in, it was the betas’ job to make sure all the omegas had mid-cycle treats, and good nests, and all of that. Or not job, necessarily, just, that was the kind of beta you wanted in your life, if you were O, and I got a ton of crap for not, like, being more typically alpha. I don’t really understand your system here, where I guess it’s like”—Grantaire’s voice goes up with uncertainty—“if an omega doesn’t have an alpha, none of that stuff gets taken care of? Which is a pretty bullshit system, if you ask me?” 

“It is a bullshit system,” Enjolras agrees, smiling now. “But those are—here, those are courting gestures, doesn’t matter if it’s between an alpha and an omega or a beta and omega. Or even O-O. Mid-cycle food, nesting: that’s courting.” 

“Oh, shit,” says Grantaire. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Enjolras insists. He takes another step closer to Grantaire. “It’s not though, is it? Because… you like me. And I like you. And I don’t care if you’re stereotypically this or not stereotypically that, I like _you_.” 

“I like you, too,” says Grantaire. He’s full-on grinning now, and Enjolras vows he’ll re-write every stupid stereotype Grantaire had heard in his younger years, just to keep Grantaire this happy. 

Enjolras closes the distance between them, grasping both of Grantaire’s hands. 

“Does, um,” Grantaire starts. “Does this mean I should take back the blanket? At least for now?” 

“Don’t even think about it,” Enjolras says. “It’s mine now.” 

“It’s yours,” Grantaire agrees. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With these weekday chapters, I've really tried to post them so UK night owls have a chance of reading them before bed. Today, unfortunately, I got home from work and had to deal with my second job, home stuff, and preparations for an interview that could potentially let me leave both jobs and home. Hence the slight tardiness of this chapter!

On Saturday, Enjolras wakes up with the luminous thought, _he likes me_.

He rolls over.

It’s still true: _he likes me._

_He likes me, he likes me, he likes me_. 

Every petal, no matter the number, no matter the flower: _he likes me_. 

He whispered that to Jehan, after the meeting was over. Jehan only smiled, kissed his forehead, and said, “I know.” 

When he checks his phone, a text message from Grantaire is waiting for him: _Can I see you today?_

_Enjolras_ : YES

Enjolras thinks they might both be too skittish to meet at one of their apartments, so he proposes that they meet at a boulangerie midway between them and go from there. 

It takes a little longer, and he has to walk a little farther, but Enjolras takes the bus. 

“Tell me,” Grantaire says, after they’ve greeted one another and are standing on the stoop, “if I pay for your croissant, what does that mean to you?” 

Enjolras laughs and leans into Grantaire a little as a customer exits the shop. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Courf, Ferre, and I trade off treating each other all the time. But it can mean something if you want it to.” 

“If _you_ want it to,” says Grantaire. 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Enjolras, taking his hand and tugging him inside. 

There’s a park around the corner, and they wander a little ways through it, stopping at a bench next to a small pond. 

“We didn’t really get a chance to finish talking last night,” Enjolras starts. He brushes croissant crumbs off of his jeans. 

“Social justice stops for no social misunderstandings?” Grantaire smirks as he shifts towards Enjolras, one arm leaning against the bench’s backrest.

“The opposite, I think? Ideally?” Enjolras frowns. 

“Didn’t mean to derail us. Sorry,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Anyway… if you weren’t courting me, what in the world did you think _I_ was doing?” 

“Honestly, I had no idea,” says Grantaire. “I thought about asking Jehan a couple of times what was up with your weird syntax, but I thought that might be presumptive or insensitive or… ignorant. Which, uh, yeah. Google set me straight last night.” 

“I forgot you weren’t here for all the contraception and courting talks in 3e,” Enjolras says. 

“I was not,” Grantaire says, gravely. He fidgets, looking down at his other hand, which is tapping out a nervous beat against his leg. “You could teach me, though. Or have Combeferre teach me. I can learn it, if it’s important to you.” 

Enjolras doesn’t let himself duck his head, or flinch, or blush, even though he’s opening his mouth to say, _it’s not, it’s nothing, it’s stupid_. He closes his mouth, swallows. He digs his shoe into the gravel path. 

“Enjolras?” 

“You don’t have to. _We_ don’t have to. You don’t need to change anything,” Enjolras insists, his voice becoming more confident, because this above all he’s sure of. “I don’t want you to change, at all.” 

“You don’t really mean that,” Grantaire says. His voice is light. “You with your protests and social justice group.” 

“You come to the meetings.” 

Grantaire’s lips twist. “Well, yeah. You guys are great. Reflected light, et cetera. And I might not be able to be what you’d like there, but—that’s different. This is personal. I don’t want us to start already knowing there are—gaps, problems, whatever.” 

Enjolras nods. Hesitantly, he places his hand on top of Grantaire’s, the one that’s resting on Grantaire’s thigh. Grantaire’s hand his warm, a little dry, probably from children’s paint. “It is kind of important to me,” he says. “It—it is. And I know it’s all bullshit, but—”

“You want it anyway. That’s okay,” says Grantaire. “I can do that. We can do that.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Grantaire looks him in the eye. “Enjolras, will you do me the honor of permitting me to court you?” 

“You sneak. You don’t need Combeferre, you researched last night on your own,” says Enjolras. 

“So…” 

Enjolras leans forward and kisses Grantaire’s cheek. “I would receive your attention with pleasure. Only if you’ll allow me to do the same for you.” 

“I think that can be arranged,” says Grantaire, blushing. 

They sit on the bench for a while longer, people-watching, still kind of holding hands. Enjolras is hyper-aware of Grantaire’s hand beneath his, every bone that’s gently pressing into his palm. 

“If you were trying not to court me…” Enjolras says eventually. “What would you have done, if you were?” 

Grantaire snorts. “Gotten myself arrested? I mean, asked you out, asked Combeferre if I could ask you out—which I know is kind of fucked up, but like, à la Spice Girls? Said something stupid to a police officer at the next protest, realistically speaking. I can’t exactly afford jewels right now, so, dumb shit, I don’t know, I was never any good at courting back home, either.” 

“So you’re saying—only, please don’t get yourself arrested unless absolutely necessary—but you’re saying that we could have skipped all this, you could have just _asked me out_?” Enjolras says. 

“…Yes?” 

Enjolras twists slightly, pressing his head into the soft part below Grantaire’s shoulder and collarbone. 

“Hey, now,” Grantaire says. He slips his hand out from Enjolras’s, adjusting until he can wrap an arm around him. “You wouldn’t have gotten the blanket otherwise, and I was under the impression the blanket was a hit, uh, eventually at least. Accurate impression or not?” 

“Accurate impression,” Enjolras allows, still speaking to Grantaire’s shoulder. 

Grantaire laughs—Enjolras feels it as much as hears it—and presses a quick kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. 

  


Enjolras replays those touches in his head over the course of a sleepy, Grantaire-less Sunday afternoon, and every métro ride he spends squashed in a corner by other tired, irritable commuters, with increasing frequency as the week goes on. 

His mid-cycle app confirms it’s not just the standard (physical) Grantaire withdrawal. 

Luckily for him, it hasn’t been a complete withdrawal this time: Grantaire has made frequent appearances in his text messages, popping in at random times of the day (and night) with sketches and client complaints and cat gifs and even the occasional article about human rights violations in Poland or Greece or Brazil. Enjolras is not very good at sending equally cute cat gifs in return, but he tries to respond to each news piece with another article about a community arts program in a town mentioned in Grantaire’s. 

Enjolras would have suggested lunch or coffee or _something_ , but Grantaire had deadlines and Enjolras had court dates, so cat gifs it was until Friday. 

Grantaire is nearly late to the meeting, rushing in with wind-blown hair and pink cheeks, so Enjolras doesn’t have time to do more than grin stupidly at him before Combeferre calls the meeting to order. Grantaire is back to folding origami today, although he spends surprisingly little time looking down at the paper or his fingers. It’s impressive, and just as well: Enjolras probably does enough looking at Grantaire’s fingers for the both of them. 

At the end of the meeting, Combeferre smoothly takes over the wrap-up of the unofficial post-meeting, clapping him on the shoulder and gently pushing him toward Grantaire. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire, as Enjolras takes the seat next to him. 

“Hi,” says Enjolras. “So… I was wondering. Would you like to go out for dinner with me tomorrow? On a date?” 

Dinner, as a first official date, is a more unambiguous courting signal than coffee, which can mean anything, as countless romcoms and advice blogs can attest. Over Grantaire’s shoulder, Jehan gives Enjolras a thumb’s-up. 

Grantaire ducks his head. “Yes. Definitely.” He starts. “I mean. I—I would… Fuck. I didn’t memorize that part.” 

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says. He reaches out, grabbing one of Grantaire’s hands. 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows—both of them, this time. “You don’t need to pretend.” 

“I’m not,” says Enjolras. “It’s okay. Promise.” He rubs his thumb over Grantaire’s knuckles. His breath seems to catch in his throat. He knows he can’t actually feel Grantaire’s pulse, but his mind is half-convinced of it regardless. It’s a heady feeling. 

“But I do have—” Grantaire leans down toward his bag, not moving enough to dislodge his hand from Enjolras’s. Enjolras appreciates this level of consideration; he is not nearly ready to relinquish Grantaire. 

Grantaire sets a familiar, carefully wrapped tinfoil shape onto the table. 

“I hope you will do me the honor of receiving this gesture of my affection,” says Grantaire, in a slow, careful voice. For all that, it doesn’t sound forced or rote—just deliberate, and very sincere. 

Enjolras holds Grantaire’s gaze. His expression is a flickering mess of hope and doubt and certainty. The affection, though, is steady and unmistakable. 

“Your gift is well-met, and I receive it with joy,” says Enjolras. 

“You are generous, and my heart is glad.” Grantaire’s eyes are dancing beneath the dim café lighting, but Enjolras knows Grantaire’s not mocking him; Grantaire is simply what he says: glad. 

“ _You_ are generous, and my heart is glad,” Enjolras says, running a finger along the tinfoil. The give beneath his touch, disguised as it is by the tinfoil, suggests another loaf—an intentional mid-cycle gift, this time. 

Grantaire’s brow furrows. “Did I say it wrong?”

“No, no,” Enjolras says at once. “I was teasing. Because… you _are_ , and my heart is.” 

“Even though that’s not the next part?” 

“The script is only three lines,” Enjolras says. “After that, it’s all on us.” 

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.” Grantaire looks down at their entwined fingers, the way Enjolras is continuing to brush his thumb over Grantaire’s skin. 

“I have faith in us.” 

Enjolras contemplates the bread sitting on the table. He’s tempted to ask Grantaire home with him, to break bread with him. Almost. 

_Next time_ , he thinks. Maybe the time after that. But sometime, definitely. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote the not-fic for this in February, I had no idea it would take me until September to finish posting. But as it turns out, the same day I'm posting this—a chapter in which there are Marvel references—is the same day I'm posting my first Marvel fic. You win this round, universe.

Grantaire still knocks before he opens the door, even though he’s had a key for several weeks now, even, apparently, when it’s unlikely Enjolras will be home. Grantaire says he does this to give Enjolras’s furniture a chance to get back in place before he enters. Grantaire then generally goes on to say that he feels bad for Enjolras’s poor couch and table and chairs, because they have less time for unsupervised play, now that Grantaire comes over a few days a week to work in Enjolras’s living room. 

Enjolras knows it’s not because the light is that much better in Enjolras’s apartment—Grantaire chose his studio specifically for the decent lighting, after all—but Enjolras has no complaints. He has negative complaints, actually, which is to say, he highly approves of the situation and it should continue until one of them starts the “we could move in together?” conversation. (Realistically speaking, Enjolras will have to open that conversation. He doesn’t mind.) 

Enjolras meets Grantaire at the door, taking the heavy pie tin with one hand and pulling Grantaire in for a kiss with the other. (It’s not _not_ romantic, Grantaire has assured him. Mid-cycles require some amount of efficiency, at least at the beginning, so they can get to the parts that are not about efficiency in the least.) 

“Don’t forget, we have to set up for movie night, too,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras likes the shape of Grantaire’s mouth when he says _we_. He kisses him again. (Positive reinforcement.) 

“Pie, couch?” Grantaire asks. 

“Pie on couch,” Enjolras corrects. “Forks?” 

Grantaire turns into the kitchen, and there’s an abbreviated symphony as he opens the drawer, retrieves the cutlery, pours them both glasses of water. Enjolras settles on the couch, placing the pie tin on the coffee table and making sure the throw blanket and pillows are optimally arranged. 

He has _pillows_ for his living room now, and an abstract drawing of Grantaire’s, and a picture Feuilly took of the two of them right after a protest, tired and exhilarated, Enjolras’s arm around Grantaire’s waist, Grantaire’s arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. Enjolras isn’t supposed to know about it, but Grantaire has been collecting old ABC posters and flyers, old group photos, from their friends ( _their_ friends), so he hadn’t questioned Grantaire’s uncharacteristic decorating restraint. He suspects a collage or—anyway, something gorgeous that he doesn’t have a name for and doesn’t need to. 

Enjolras is uncovering the pie tin when Grantaire enters. Grantaire puts the forks and glasses on the coffee table, then sits down, immediately drawing Enjolras into him. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire. He tips their foreheads together; his thumbs slide along Enjolras’s cheekbones, his jaw. Enjolras’s body, tightly coiled all day, seems to unspring—but only for the purpose of being able to push closer into Grantaire. “How you doing?” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You could have cooked here, you know.” He settles one hand on Grantaire’s waist, shifting the fingers until they catch the end of Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire’s skin is warm, and Enjolras wastes no time in pressing his whole palm to Grantaire’s uncovered side, his pinky just dipping beneath Grantaire’s waistband. 

“Mmhm,” says Grantaire. “I would have let it burn, and you know it.” His hands fall to drape over Enjolras’s shoulders, one lightly cupping the back of his neck. 

Enjolras catches the underside of Grantaire’s jaw in a kiss. “You wouldn’t have.” 

“I might have.” 

“… I wouldn’t have minded?” 

“You would have,” says Grantaire. “Anyway, now you have unburnt pie. And me.” 

“Received with joy,” says Enjolras, kissing his way along Grantaire’s neck. He follows the line of Grantaire’s necklace, nipping at the skin, relishing the coolness of the chain when it brushes against his lips. The necklace, and the semi-precious stone hanging from it, was a gift from Enjolras after their first month of (official) courtship. 

Enjolras doesn’t care much for jewelry—although he will admit, only to Courfeyrac, that he harbors specific, secret fantasies involving matching gold rings—but as it turns out, Grantaire does. Enjolras can feel the press of one of Grantaire’s bracelets (two months) against his collarbone, and he arcs into the sensation. 

“Pie pause?” he makes himself say. 

Nothing kills an afterglow quite like a rumbling stomach, and Enjolras is _very_ dedicated to afterglow. 

“Pie pause.” Grantaire gives him a firm kiss. 

Enjolras twists, aided by Grantaire’s firm hands, until his back is against Grantaire’s chest, a warm, steady heat behind him. 

Enjolras likes the ritual of it: the food, the sex, the after. 

The food: savory pie, this time. Enjolras might develop a preference at some point, but right now they’re experimenting. 

The sex: is still pretty new, and therefore not without its little hiccups. (One time, early on, literally. Enjolras was mortified; Grantaire promised he wouldn’t laugh about it until Enjolras thought it was funny, too. Enjolras isn’t there yet, but he thinks someday he might be.) Grantaire is strong and gentle and, most importantly, patient when Enjolras is still learning how to find Grantaire’s prostate. (But when Enjolras does—well, luckily Grantaire says smug is a good look on him.) Enjolras is looking forward to switching, but both of them know his patience for the process is low around his mid-cycle. It’ll keep. (Just… not too long.) 

The after: Grantaire keeps fresh sheets on hand, which Enjolras thinks is genius. After there are no more orgasms to be had, Enjolras thinks pretty much everything Grantaire does is genius. (To be fair, he tends to think that during the run-up to the orgasms, too.) Grantaire likes to nap a little; Enjolras hypnotizes himself running his fingers through Grantaire’s sweat-damp hair, or along the soft curves of his body. It’s pretty effective, as mediation methods go. 

Today’s after is grumpily truncated, because movie night waits for no man (or men, or their post-orgasm hazes). 

“They’re going to _know_ ,” Enjolras complains, as they tidy the living room and bring out more (more!) blankets and cushions for their guests. Eponine teased Grantaire about enabling Enjolras’s blanket addiction, but soon he had a blanket _and_ a pillow for each of their friends, which was wonderful and limited the teasing, mostly because Eponine fell hard for her set and woe befall anyone who tried to borrow them. (“Very Spice Girls,” Enjolras assured Grantaire, once he figured out Grantaire’s careful gift system and strategic ushering of this friend or that toward one pillow or another during gatherings.) 

“You’re still synced with Courf and Jehan, it’s not like they were doing anything different,” Grantaire says. 

“Yeah, but—normally they’re not all here, right after.” Enjolras turns toward the kitchen, meaning to pull the fruit out of the fridge, but Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist, arresting his progress. 

“Are you bothered by that? Instinctually? Everybody coming in?” Grantaire’s forehead is creased with concern, and Enjolras has no doubt that if he said _yes_ , Grantaire would fire off an authoritative group text and movie night would move elsewhere. (The thought of this is very hot and very unhelpful.) 

Enjolras sighs. “No.” 

“No, you love our friends and sometimes you fantasize about going Tony Stark on them and buying a mansion or an apartment building and having everyone snug and radical under one roof?” Grantaire teases. 

“You can’t hold that against me!” Enjolras protests. “That was _one time_. And, anyway, Tony—”

“Ooh, are we interrupting a morality-of-complex-superheroes conversation?” Courfeyrac asks, walking right in, Jehan at his side. “One of your neighbors let us in,” he adds. 

“I’m vetoing _Civil War_ ,” Grantaire says. “Again.” 

There’s a quiet moment where Jehan, Courf, and Grantaire eye Enjolras warily. Or, Grantaire eyes him warily; Courf and Jehan’s looks are a little too close to speculative for comfort. 

“Okay, okay,” Enjolras, holding up his hands. “No _Civil War_ for me.” 

“It really is for your own good,” says Jehan sadly, patting him on the arm. 

The end goes like this: Enjolras leaning sleepily on Grantaire’s chest, their fingers tangled, Jehan and Courfeyrac squashed in next to them (possible only because Jehan is on Courfeyrac’s lap), Combeferre leaning on Enjolras’s legs from his spot on the floor, the others scattered around them, tipsy and only half watching the movie. 

“Jehan,” Enjolras whispers, under cover of the final fight scene, “I take it back, and I won’t question it again.” 

Jehan twists in Courf’s lap to face him. “Is this about _Civil War_?” they ask, not in a whisper, because Jehan does not whisper outside séances. 

“No. I mean, you have very good taste in strays.” Enjolras pauses. “And we are pro-squatters’ rights, so, really—”

By now, Grantaire is shaking with laughter, muffling the sound in Enjolras’s hair. 

“If any part of that sentence involves the phrase ‘quality control,’” Grantaire gasps. 

“You sure know how to pick them, R,” Combeferre says dryly from the floor, waving a corner of his blanket like a drowsy flag. 

“Don’t fight him on this,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire tilts his chin, kissing him briefly. “You know,” he says. “I really wasn’t going to. Although in this case, I think it was mostly the other way around.” 

“ _Mutual_ ,” Enjolras insists. 

“I didn’t see you doing any quality control,” Grantaire says, one eyebrow raised. 

“I think that’s our cue,” Musichetta says, pulling both of her boys off of the floor and out of the triad’s temporary pillow nest. 

“Is that their cue?” Enjolras asks Grantaire, widening his eyes. 

“You tell me,” says Grantaire.

Eponine cuts in before Enjolras can reply. “It’s definitely our cue, because that was veering into dangerous territory involving both of you telling each other _with your dicks_ , and I am so out.” 

“Hear that?” Grantaire says. 

“So out,” Eponine mutters, but she stops to ruffle them both on the head. 

Enjolras and Grantaire do get up for the chaos of goodbyes, followed by a hasty transfer of the mess from the living room into the kitchen. Grantaire starts covering the leftover food, moving from counter to cupboard to refrigerator with the ease of long familiarity and an assumption of his right to said familiarity. 

Enjolras will start rinsing wine glasses in a minute, but for now he leans against the doorframe. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.

Grantaire pauses by sink. “Sure. Although if it’s about _Civil War_ , the answer’s still no.”

“Not about _Civil War_ ,” says Enjolras. “Just… I’m going to ask it now, because I want to hear you say—well, you don’t have to say yes, but I’m hoping you will. And I’ll ask it properly later.” 

“You don’t need to,” says Grantaire.

“I want to.” 

“I know. Ask away.” Grantaire takes a few steps closer, not crowding Enjolras, but making himself available. 

“Move in with me, when your lease is up?” It’s still a ways away, but something about the night—Grantaire in his kitchen—Grantaire, with his one eyebrow raised—all those soft things in the living room—makes him want to ask now. 

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire. “When you ask me later, I’m going to answer properly, but for now: _yes_.” 


End file.
